


Forge

by Hystaracal



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: AU, F/M, Gen, Harry Potter AU, dramione - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-28
Updated: 2019-02-28
Packaged: 2019-11-06 23:12:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17948999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hystaracal/pseuds/Hystaracal
Summary: In the aftermath of a cataclysmic new regime, Draco and Hermione traverse the distance between persecution and revolution.





	1. First

**Author's Note:**

> **Prompt:**
> 
>  
> 
> Witch Hunt AU: Two rival magic practitioners are being hunted under suspicion of magic, and must help one another escape. 
> 
> I hope this is AU enough, and not too much of a stretch from the prompt!  
> DISCLAIMER - I own nothing but this so-called plot.

 

 

 

**_Desolation._ **

**  
** It was a warm summer’s day when Dolores Umbridge acceded to the presidency of the Republic of Diagon.

And everything went to hell.

  
Her campaign had been a whirlwind of steam and fire. She stood, a stout and dumpy woman in pink, behind podiums across the nation, delivering speech after speech that seared into the primal insecurities of the masses and roused them to frenzy. Her voice poured out of megaphones placed at every street corner. It bleared out of radios in homes and barber shops.  
Her broad, flaccid face and protruding eyes blistered on the covers of magazines, on posters and billboards. It showed up on every television screen – in living rooms, in the display windows of electronic shops, on the cashier’s counter at the grocer’s...

She pressed bows and kisses on the heads of new born babies as their parents beamed. She ate meals with the poor, she played with kittens at animal shelters. She was one of the people, she was an ally, she was a true citizen of Diagon.

The one’s that weren’t, she claimed, the ones who believed themselves to be outside and above, were the ones with Magic.

  
“The Magical Ones have no accountability!” she raged.  
“The Magical Ones never have to worry about water and medical bills!” she thundered.  
“The Magical Ones use their powers for their own benefits alone!” she screamed.  
“The Magical Ones are making your jobs redundant!” she bellowed.

“Down with Magic! Down with Magic! Down with Magic!” The crowd volleyed and chanted.

  
Two days after she gained power, she abolished the electorate.

Three days after that, she assumed the title of _The High Inquisitor._

A week later, began the purge.

  
A country that had existed in harmony for centuries plunged into chaos.  Magical households were razed to the ground. Men and women were slaughtered in front of their screaming children, or dragged outside and set aflame at the Plaza.  
Umbridge’s Inquisitorial Army was equipped with shields and magic dampers that brought even the strongest sorcerers to their knees. Anyone non-Magical who tried to intervene was mere collateral.

The hunt went on for weeks, and there was seldom a moment that wasn’t filled with shrieks, wails, gunshots, or explosions. The streets were lined with sensors and traps – nobody was safe.

  
And thus devastated, the remaining lot of Magical Ones fled. Risking the triggers, they disillusioned themselves, and ran to the towering peaks by the border.  Then they descended deep underground, miles and miles below the surface, into long abandoned mines.

That was to be their new home.

 

* * *

 


	2. Second

 

**_Recuperation._ **  


 

Minerva McGonagall, known to be a pillar of dignity and composure, slapped her palms down on the rickety wooden table. Her eyes flashed.

“Well, what would you have us do?” she seethed in a dangerous, low tone, “They’re out for our blood! We can’t put a toe across the border without them knowing!”

Her challenger was a handsome man with dark hair and darker eyes. His posture was imposingly perfect, his complexion was flawless; he looked far younger than he really was. Mimicking her pose, he laid his hands on the table in a deliberate manner, and leaned forward menacingly.   

“Pathetic,” he hissed, “So you want us to cower here in this hole forever? Crushed and craven, practicing minimal Magic–”

“ _Not_ forever, Tom!” Minerva railed, “I’m suggesting we lie low until we can properly strategise a way out of this mess!”

“There is no way out! That bitch has total control over the machinery, the forces, the people – the only way to bring her down is to fight! Fight for our rightful place, our home.”

Minerva slumped. Her eyes closed, and for a moment – a mere fleeting moment – her face crumpled under the full weight of the sorrow and exhaustion she was feeling.

“Their dampers... we’re powerless.”

Tom pounded a fist against the table, and his voice soared. “So we hit back their way. Bombs, guns, batons. Anything _they_ do, we can do better. And when they’re finally vanquished and mewling pitifully, we’ll show them the true might of Magic.”

“Tom,” she whispered, “Tom. Hasn’t there been enough fighting? Haven’t enough people died?”

He straightened, just as slowly and deliberately as before.

“No,” he pronounced icily, “Nothing will be enough until we get back what’s ours.”

“This is not what Albus would’ve wanted.”

“Albus Dumbledore is dead.”

  
She flinched, as if it was news to her... a blow. As if she hadn’t been carrying that grief with her all day.    
Tom took several steps back, so that the light from the low taper on the table could barely reach him. With his dark clothes, he seemed to blend into the inky shadows that owned the enormous cavern they were in.

“Albus Dumbledore died a fool,” he went on with a callous curl of his lip. “Look at what has come of his outrageous dream of living alongside the rabble?  He was a barmy old man who–”

“YOU WILL NOT SAY A WORD AGAINST HIM, RIDDLE!”

Minerva had rediscovered her fire, and as it blazed within her, it blazed in the cave: The tiny candle-flame scorched its way up to the ceiling. That blaze of light struck the walls, and revealed the fifty-or-so ashen faces that were watching the dispute.

“Oh my,” Tom crooned, a sardonic grin slicing across his face, “Accidental magic, and at your age? For shame, Minerva.”

His grin didn’t fit him. His face wasn’t meant to smile. Minerva ignored his slight and raised her chin defiantly. Her glasses caught the light and flared.

“You’re going down the wrong path, Tom.”

“I’m finally correcting the path,” he countered, “You can sit on your hands all you want, but I know it’s high time we show those pathetic mice their true place.”

Out from the pocket of his coat, he pulled out his wand and brazenly dispelled multiple shards of light across the cavern.

“Come with me,” he called, “Those who wish to take charge, take arms, and take control. Come with me, brave ones... ones with vision and drive and conviction. Come. Let us rain fire and wrath upon those who dared to annihilate us.”

  
He swept away, down a narrow track that was just one of the many, many arms that comprised the dizzying underground network. The flickers he’d conjured raced after him.

  
The first ones on his tail were Bellatrix Lestrange, her tangle of hair spilling over her leather jacket, her gaunt husband and his gaunter brother. Then went Dolohov. Then gristly, bare-chested Greyback.   
Rosier. Nott senior and then junior, with his haunted, glassy eyes.   
Lucius Malfoy stalked out; one arm around his wife and the other grasping the arm of his young son.

  
Bit by bit, the crowd thinned. It Halved. And finally –

“Even you, Severus?” Minerva croaked. She was sitting on a rock by then, drained of strength entirely.   
The man in question didn’t spare her a glance as he left.

 

A profound silence followed.

A man with mousey brown hair and tattered clothes turned on a transistor. After a second or two of static, Umbridge’s pitchy voice swelled from its speakers:

  
“... _victorious, and finally free from the tyranny of the Magical Ones! Celebrate, oh liberated citizens of Diagon! We are now entering a new age of –”_

  
“Remus... No. Please.”

He turned the transistor off again.

 

* * *

 


	3. Third

  
  
**Dissonance.**

  
  
_Three Years Later:_

 

The yawning cavern that had once been a dim and damp hole was now full of large kerosene lamps. Soft rugs chequered the floor like a patchwork quilt and tents ran along its walls.  
There was a stockroom in one corner, an infirmary in the other.

It looked lived in, like its inhabitants had done everything, _everything_ to ensure that it exuded a sense of comfort.

  
Closest to the cave’s exit was a simple white tent, unadorned, save for a chime that hung from the entrance.  
The interior was disproportionately large; the size of a compact, three bedroom flat. In the centre of the main room was a round table, and at that table sat a young man and a young woman.

He was of average height and rather thin. An abbreviated description of his appearance would be: Tousled jet black hair, round glasses, brilliant green eyes.  
Said eyes were blinking owlishly at his companion, one with an unruly mane of curls and a slender frame, as she presented him with a small bottle of _Felix Felicis_.

“Hermione,” he breathed, “How on earth did you get your hands on this?”

With a dainty shrug of her shoulders, she replied, “I’ve had it for ages, from when I was apprenticed to Slughorn, you know... before... everything. It wasn’t difficult to sneak it away; he spent most of his time playing games on his computer.”

“But–”

“Save it, Harry Potter.”

“No, listen!” Harry beseeched, “ _Felix_ is a bloody precious commodity now, and you’re giving it to _me_?”

She fixed stern brown eyes on him. “Who else would I give it to?”

  
Just then, a door behind Harry opened with a creak, and Minerva entered the room carrying a large chocolate cake.

“Happy birthday, Harry,” she smiled.

“A cake?” Harry gasped, “ _You_ baked me a cake?”

Minerva’s smile widened, and it had a remarkable effect on her typically severe facade. “Mostly.”

“ _Mostly_?”

“Yes. There... perhaps... might have been a little Magic involved.”

Harry gaped at her. “But we aren’t allowed to–”

“Young man,” she interjected, “There are certain occasions on which I find it necessary to make an exception.”

And so, they ate cake. Hermione used the last pair of batteries in her possession to power their cassette player. Cake and music, followed by Minerva’s perfectly steeped tea – Harry thought it was a very happy birthday indeed.

  
“I never thought I’d feel like this again,” he confided to Hermione after Minerva had left to tend to her teacherly duties, “I never thought... after my parents died in the purge, I was sure I’d never have a family again. But you and Minerva – you–”

“She’s wonderful, isn’t she?” Hermione smiled, “I’ve never known my parents, Harry, but she’s never let me feel their absence. And now I have an annoying little brother, too, don’t I?”

“I’m _less than a year_ younger than you!”

“Up you get, kiddo.” She stood up and began pulling at his arm. “I told Ron we’d be at his place by noon and we’re a full twelve minutes late. You know it’s never wise to keep him waiting around lunch time.”

 

* * *

 

  
A long journey through labyrinthine tunnels would take you to another large cave. This cave had a paved floor. This cave had proper constructions instead of tents – structures that hummed and faintly glowed. There were candle stands that burned eternally. There was a clinic with brass beds and leather chairs. There was a potion’s lab, a training centre, and a workshop where every kind of weapon, magical and regular, was fashioned. The roof had a large glass disk that mirrored the sky, through thousands of meters of soil, gravel, and rock.  
It was all Magical, _all of it;_ boldly, defiantly Magical.  
And high above this settlement hung a huge banner, displaying a chilling emblem: An emerald green skull with a coiling snake for a tongue.

This was the same chilling symbol that was left nailed on the doors of officials, and drawn in blood around the lifeless husks that lay scattered after a bombing. It was the symbol that Tom Riddle’s band of rebels shot into the sky with their wands after wreaking havoc. It was the symbol that Umbridge was quick to declare as the mark of the most malevolent terrorist organisation ever seen. It was the symbol that had tripled the security at Diagon’s borders... had brought about the imposition of strict martial law.  
Tanks rumbled, soldiers marched, jets whizzed across the sky.

It was only Albus Dumbledore’s parting gift – his ultimate sacrifice – that kept the Magical Ones from being discovered.

 

* * *

 

  
Back at the other camp, Harry and Hermione entered the oddest looking tent of the lot. It had once been red, but was now faded and stained. Its edges were lined with tassels.

“Finally!” Ron Weasley boomed on spotting them, “Happy birthday, mate!”

He clapped Harry on the back, and pulled Hermione into a one-armed hug. He towered over them both, in spite of the way he was stooping. Ron nearly always stooped, as though his alarming height caused him to feel constant discomfort.    
His cry alerted the rest of his red-haired clan, and they clamoured towards the entrance to press greetings and salutations upon the guest of honour. Molly Weasley, a composite of motherly qualities, directed him towards the kitchen, which was primarily occupied by a large table that was groaning under the weight of its spread.

 

* * *

 

 

   
While all the houses in Riddle’s camp were grand in their own way, there was none that matched up to the grandeur of the Malfoy establishment. The arch of its doorway was covered with chrysanthemums that never wilted, and flanked with marble sculptures of peacocks. Inside was a hallway, a large kitchen in which the dishes were washing themselves, a drawing room with velvet furniture, and two bedrooms.

In the smaller bedroom, on the soft, queen-sized bed, sat a young man with hair the colour of moonlight. He had an air of despondency about him; his sharp, startlingly pale features were taut. He was throwing a small rubber ball against the wall, over and over and over again.   
He caught and threw the ball for the eighty-third time, absolutely determined to reach a hundred. It would be his one and only accomplishment after nineteen years of existence; his sole achievement before he died.

It must be noted that he was absolutely _certain_ that he was going to die in two days time.

On Riddle’s orders, he was going to attempt to assassinate General Crouch, Umbridge’s ruthless, ever-vigilant right hand man... and he was going to die. There was no other possible outcome of such a venture.

Eighty-nine, ninety, ninety-one.

Someone pounded on his door.

  
“DRACO! Open the damned door, Draco!”

  
Draco Malfoy ignored him. He threw the ball for the ninety-third time.

  
“DRACO!”

  
Ninety-four, ninety-five–

  
“OPEN THE DOOR!”

  
Ninety-six, ninety-seven, ninety-eight–

His door flew open with a blast, and the ball slipped between his fingers and fell to the floor.

  
“What the _fuck_ , Blaise!” he seethed.

Blaise’s eyes were wide and furious. His fists were clenched. “Why wouldn’t you open the door, you tosser!”

“Leave me alone!” Draco leapt to his feet and snarled.

Blaise shot him a strange look that was somehow both revolted and pitying. He sucked in a long breath and said, “It’s Theo. He’s... been hurt. Badly.”

 

* * *

 

   
When lunch was over, Harry, Hermione, and Ron wandered out of the tent and began a slow, ambulating walk around the cavern. Their footfalls were muffled buy the rugs below; their faces were a mosaic of shadows and fire-lit skin.

  
Outside the storeroom, they encountered a frighteningly stern looking man with a wooden leg and a glass eye, tearing into a smaller, bald, and terribly ruffled looking fellow.

“Mundungus, what have I told you? What. Have I. Told. You. _Constant vigilance._ You’re to go up there to get us provisions – what’ll happen if you’re caught, you useless _cunt_?”

“Ah, sorry, right! 'M sorry! Just stepped into the bloomin' pub for a bit! One drink - they didn't even notice me, 'onest–”

“You god damned buffoon–”

  
They went on and stopped three tents down, where a boy was trying to coax a toad to leap through a plastic hula hoop.

“How’s the training going, Neville?” Hermione asked with a smile.

“Terribly,” Neville mumbled in a disheartened manner, “We’ve been at it for weeks, and Trevor just won’t cooperate. He was supposed to be jumping through rings of fire by now. I was hoping we’d be ready by Sunday’s talent show.”

Ron chuckled. “Fred and George are participating in that. A non-Magical magic show. But frankly,” he bent forward and lowered his voice conspiratorially, “I think they’re cheating. I hope McGonagall catches them.”

  
And with that, they resumed their stroll.

They waved to that mousy haired man, Remus, who was sitting betwixt a gathering of children, teaching them theories of Magic that they couldn’t put to practice.

“What’s the bloody use of that?” Ron snarked as they circled around a tent that was surrounded by shrubs laden with orange-turnip like things.

 Hermione, looking pensive, stared upwards at the dark, rocky ceiling and sighed.

“Do you even remember what the sky looks like?”

 

* * *

 

  
Draco and Blaise burst into the infirmary gasping and sputtering variations of _where is he_ , and _is he all right,_ and were met with their respected leader’s indifferent gaze. Without addressing any of their concerns, he turned to the other man in the room – a man with sallow skin, stringy ink-black hair, and the air of one who finds the entire circus of life to be a repulsive spectacle.

“Fix the kid, Severus,” Tom commanded. He then marched away, and the clapping of his thick-soled boots against the ground could be heard for many long moments during which the three men that remained stared each other down. 

  
“How is he?” Draco snarled eventually – a tone that matched the intensity of his glower.

“Not good,” Severus replied shortly, “I’ve put him under, but he’s bleeding internally, and the only thing that’ll save him is Essence of Dittany–”

“Then give him some!” Both Draco and Blaise shouted.

Severus regarded them sullenly, and only the most discerning eye could perhaps detect a hint of pity in his expression. “I’m afraid we have run out.”

“ _What_!?”

“We have seen a frightening number of casualties this past year – I’m sure you’ve noticed,” Severus sneered, “This was bound to happen.”

“Stop being fucking glib,” Draco thundered, “Are you saying he’s going to _die_ –”

“That is precisely what I’m saying.”

  
Silence followed that awful confirmation. Draco swayed on his feet, wavering and teetering like a skittle, until he collapsed into a chair by the wall. Blaise spurred into action then, and stalked right up to Severus and growled, “There has to be _something_ you can do.”

“There isn’t.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Draco wheezed. He slumped over and covered his face with his hands... and his entire body shook with silent sobs.

Squinting slightly, Severus watched him, and he watched Blaise squeeze his eyes shut and shudder. His own shoulders twitched infinitesimally.

 

* * *

 

  
There was a time, not too long ago, when Minerva McGonagall was a celebrated intellectual. She had a PhD in the Transfigurational Arts, and an MSc in Theoretical Physics. She grew up in a time when the world felt like a place of openness and progress – when Diagon prospered under the twin leadership of Rufus Scrimgeour and Albus Dumbledore. The Statesmen and the Sorcerer. Politics and Magic.

All she had ever known was that seamless dichotomy.

She had a photograph on her bedside table, from the day she’d been honoured with a national award for her groundbreaking study on Transmutability. There she sat in her posh, crushed velvet jacket, flanked by the two most powerful men she’d ever known.  
The photograph had been taken by her friend Arabella, who didn’t have a drop of Magic in her blood.

And here she stood now, with her crushed hope. She had a pen and notepad set on the table in front of her. The pen was uncapped, but the page was blank.

  
The chime at the tent’s entrance tinkled. And then she heard a voice that drained all the colour from her face.

“May I come in?”

She shot up so suddenly that her chair fell back with a loud _wham_.

“You,” she fumed, “What the devil are you doing here?”

The person she was gnashing her teeth at was Severus, in all his aloof impassivity.

“Good afternoon,” he drawled.

“Get out.”

“You used to be far more hospitable, Minerva.”

“And you used to be far less treacherous!”

That facile exchange led them to an impasse that was all heavy breathing and icy glares. Minerva’s right hand twitched towards the pocket of her long pleated skirt.  
But finally, it was Severus who yielded.

“There is a young man,” he pronounced stiffly, “In my care, who is on the brink of death.”

Minerva’s thin nostrils flared. “And what am I to do about it?”

“He has grave internal injuries,” he continued, “But he can be saved. Just half a bottle of dittany–”

“Get out, Severus!”

“Just _half_ a bottle.”

“No,” she barked, “Now leave.”

Severus regarded her with baleful disbelief. His shock at her point blank refusal was genuine.

“He’s nineteen,” he ground out, “His life has barely begun. Would you condemn him to death for–”

“For willingly following a bloodthirsty, vicious, and vindictive madman?”

“For fighting for our future!”

“Hah!” Minerva scoffed, “How many people has this noble young man killed before he got in his current state? How many innocent lives has he taken?”

“It’s the Nott boy.”

  
All of Minerva’s fight left her in one harsh expulsion of air. Her shoulders caved from the force of it, and she rasped, “Theodore?”

“Yes,” Severus replied coldly, “Theodore Nott is dying. He was a research assistant for your last project wasn’t he? I believe you were quite fond of him?”  
She seemed to be struggling to form words, and he ruthlessly went on, “But you won’t even spare a few drops of dittany to save his life?”

“I can’t!” she cried, “I _can’t_ because we don’t have any! Nobody here has brewed so much as pepper-up in the past three years. We don’t do Magic! We – there’s no blasted dittany here!”

Severus’s face was twisted most unbecomingly. “No Magic,” he spat, “In three years.”

“No.” She squared her shoulders and looked him right in the eye. “However, Poppy is quite a proficient surgeon. Let her have a look at him.” 

 

* * *

 


	4. Fourth

 

__**Exigency.**   
  
  


Lucius Malfoy was the personification of calculated elegance. 

In general, the rebel camp donned suitably rough attire, i.e., worn black jeans, black t-shirts, leather boots, and combat jackets.   
And then there was Lucius, with his long, smooth, shining hair, crisp white shirt, pressed trousers, and stylish silver-topped cane. The cane was, of course, purely decorative – heaven forbid that a Malfoy ever be inflicted with something as vulgar and plebeian as infirmity.

  
It was late at night, or rather, well early in the morning, and he was standing in one corner of the infirmary, looking distastefully at his wife and son as they sat close together, united by their devastation.

Blaise was pacing frantically, up and down, up and down...

Titus Nott was sitting by the door, expressionless, looking as though he was waiting for a train, rather than vital information regarding his son’s mortality. In sharp contrast was Minerva, _trying_ to look stoic but failing miserably. Her eyes were red. Her hands were trembling. Daphne Greengrass and Pansy Parkinson were sobbing quietly.

  
Lucius turned away with a tired sigh and rolled his neck. Perhaps propriety prevented him from uttering the words his manner so blatantly conveyed: _I need a bloody drink._

  
Then the door to Theo’s room opened and a middle-aged woman in blue scrubs shuffled out, followed by Severus. She appeared completely shattered, and even he looked uncharacteristically ashen.  

“I’m sorry,” the woman – Poppy Pomfrey – rasped, “But there’s nothing I can do. His injuries are too severe.”

  
There were so many consequent gasps that there was no air left in the room. Titus eyed her frostily before turning to Minerva.

“I thought you said she was competent.”

Minerva, it seemed, was lost for words.

“You mean to say–” Draco choked out, “He’s – Theo’s – he’s _dea_ –”

“Not yet,” Severus replied, “We have given him a dose of the draught of living death and put him under a heavy stasis charm. But he _needs_ dittany. It’s the only way to save him.”

“How long can he stay that way?” Blaise demanded.

“A week – at the most.”

Pansy let out a loud wail and buried her face in Daphne’s shoulder.

“And there’s nothing – no other–”

  
Narcissa Malfoy’s desperate plea was cut short when Tom Riddle swept into the room. Instantly, everyone – and the very _air_ – seemed to tighten. Greyback followed in his wake. They were both wearing skullcaps and there were damp patches on their dark clothing that could have been water or blood.

“How’s the boy?” Tom inquired brusquely.

“Not good, sir,” Titus said at once, “Minerva’s useless quack could do nothing.”

Poppy seemed inclined to snap back, but her retort was quelled by one sharp look from Tom. She could do naught but seethe silently.

“Well,” Tom drawled, “I’m terribly sorry for your loss, Titus. Your boy was a good fighter. You should be proud; he died valiantly, serving our movement. We will drink in his honour tonight.”

And just like that, he left.   
Greyback went after him, as did Titus. Easily washing his hands off the whole tedious affair.  

  
They left behind clamorous stillness.

“That’s it?” Draco broke the stunned silence with his horrified exclamation. “That’s fucking _it_?! Theo’s still alive! We can’t just – No! Absolutely not! We have to do something!”

“You heard what Severus said,” Lucius began, all breezy and soothing, “There’s nothing we can–”

“ _Shut up_!” Draco thundered.

“How dare–”

“There is one way,” Minerva murmured, “Grimmauldia. It’s just across Lake Godric... in fact there’s a settlement right by the bank, there ought to be an apothecary there.”

“Are you forgetting,” Severus said, “That Grimmauldia is all the way on the other side of Diagon?”

“I know that,” Minerva snapped.

He scoffed. “You’re too afraid to step out of your cave, and now you want to traipse across the city?”

“I make exceptions when the situation requires it!” Minerva’s eyes flashed dangerously, heightened by the teary film that lay over them.

“Anyone who tries will be caught!” Lucius erupted, “Polyjuice is out of the question because of the dampers, and they have check posts all over, _and_ a detailed register with all our names and photographs–”

  
Severus and Minerva were regarding each other closely as Lucius blithered.

“The register,” Severus piped up without taking his eyes of Minerva, “Does not include photographs of those that were underage at the time that it was compiled.”

“Precisely,” Minerva affirmed.

“I’ll go,” Draco volunteered at once.

  
Pained hisses escaped out of both of his parents, but he ignored them and stood up. His mother clung to his arm, trying to pull him back down but he firmly shook her off.   

“I’ll go,” he repeated, taking a step towards Minerva.

“I forbid it!” Lucius roared, all decorum forgotten.

Draco sneered at him, and witheringly replied, “You have no business forbidding me from doing anything.”

“I am your father!”

“And he’s my best friend!”

“You’ll die! They’ll catch you and they’ll _kill_ you, idiot boy!”

“I was going to die anyway! That mission I was being sent on – did you think I was going to survive? I’d have ended up right here, _just like Theo_!”

Lucius suddenly abandoned his rage and turned to supplication. “Let it go, Draco,” he entreated, “He died for our cause, it’s a noble way–”

“ _Our_ cause?” Draco seethed, “No! _Your_ cause. You and all your deluded – _Argh!_ Saving my friend’s life – that’s _my_ cause.”

“Draco,” Narcissa warbled, “Draco, please!”

He turned to his mother and his expression was raw and desperate. “It’s Theo, mother. _Theo._ Don’t you understand? I have to do this.”

  
She buried her face in her hands and wept. Lucius fell against the wall behind him as though he’d been viciously stunned. Blaise seemed to be trying to blend into the shadows. And Severus and Minerva – well. They just stared at Draco speculatively. There was no question of asking him if he was sure, or need to inform him of the dangers of this venture. His resolve was clearly etched on his face.

  
“Calm yourself, Narcissa,” Severus said, “He won’t be alone. I’m sure Zabini here would be more than willing to–”

“I have a better idea,” Minerva interjected. (Nobody acknowledged Blaise’s overtly relieved expulsion of air.) “Such an undertaking requires someone who is resourceful, intelligent, and highly capable.”

“Indeed,” Severus concurred a tad sardonically, “Do you know of such a paragon?”

“My ward.”

Severus’s lip curled contemptuously. “The Granger girl? That insolent, insufferable know-it-all?”

Minerva smiled, as though that description filled her with immeasurable pride. “Indeed,” she stated, “So you agree that she will be perfect?”

“...Yes.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Hermione, please don’t go,” Harry implored.

He was sitting on her bed, and his back was stooped with woe. He watched her as she stood before her dressing table, coiling her extensive hair into a tight bun.

“Stop it, Harry,” she chided, “Don’t be difficult.”

“ _You_ don’t be difficult!” he countered urgently, “Why do you have to do this? Why _you_? For some random bloke who–”

“Theo isn’t random,” she insisted. Her hair was as neat as it could get, so she moved to lacing her boots. “We worked together for months on Minerva’s paper on Transfiguration and cellular structure. We became fairly good friends. I can’t possibly leave him to die.”

“Oh come on,” Harry groaned, “Let that Malfoy chap go off on his own!”

“Who knows how competent he is? For all we know, he’s a useless bugger and he’ll get killed within seconds.”

“What if _you_ get killed?!”

  
With her boots sorted, Hermione straightened and fixed him with a wry sort of smile. “Do you have such little faith in my brilliance?”

Harry was not amused. He stood up and placed his hands on her shoulders, lowering his head to peer into her eyes.

“If something happens to you, Hermione...”

She reached up and gripped his wrists. “Nothing will happen to me.”

“Why won’t you let me come with you?” His brow puckered with distress.

“You look too much like your father,” she replied, and gave his wrists a comforting squeeze. “Not even a prosthetic nose and fake beard can mask that.”

“Hermione,” he groaned, and pulled her into a long hug. And when they broke apart, he pressed a familiar, tiny bottle into her hand. “Take this.”

She protested. “But it was a gift for you!”

“Listen you stubborn fool, you _need_ it. The most dangerous things I have to face here are Fred and George. And Seamus, after he’s had a few drinks.”

  
They walked out of their tent a few moments later, after Hermione had put on a trench coat over her fitted black pullover and slung a duffel bag over her shoulder. Outside, Minerva and Ron were waiting for them.   
Ron seized her and held her tightly against himself, muttering, “Be careful; please, _please_ be careful,” into her hair. Then Minerva enfolded her in her arms.

“If I had _anything_ but complete confidence in you–”

“Shh,” Hermione whispered, and wiped the tears that were trailing out of the older woman’s eyes, “I’ve told you this enough times. I’m glad and _proud_ that you volunteered me. I will be back in three short days, alright? And we’ll fix stupid Theo, and you can give him a solid wallop and bring him here. He and Harry will get along rather well, don’t you think?”

Harry scoffed as Minerva allowed herself a watery chuckle. She kept her arm around Hermione as she led her away from their camp.

 

* * *

 


	5. Fifth

 

**_Engagement._ **

 

Draco stood by the lift with his mother’s hand clasped tightly around his. His father was gripping his shoulder like a vice, and he _didn’t_ petulantly shove him away, in spite of how badly he wanted to.

He was brimming with a strange combination of adrenaline and anxiety. The few strands of hair that fell over his eyes were a deep chocolate brown rather than the usual eye-catching pale gold that they once were. He was dressed in distressed jeans, a dark green shirt, and heavy tan boots. His rucksack was compact and black.  

His heart was racing, and then... he heard footsteps that were almost in tandem with its frantic beats.

  
Two figures stalked towards them, down the gloomy passageway.

Draco strained his eyes to get a look at his designated companion – the Granger girl, they called her – and his nose wrinkled involuntarily as she approached. After the way McGonagall had exalted her, he was expecting a warrior queen. Someone strong, imposing, and threatening.  
But she was just a girl: A small slip of a girl with wide brown doe-eyes and pink cheeks. _She_ was supposed to be his infallible ally?  
Theo had mentioned her a couple of times, when they’d been working together; called her _really fucking pretty_. Well... Draco supposed that was true enough.

  
“Draco,” McGonagall croaked in a voice that was laden with suppressed emotion, “This is Hermione.”

He shook her hand – her infuriatingly dainty, delicate hand, probably not strong enough to open a bottle of pop. She nodded guardedly at him, and he struggled to return the gesture without scowling.

McGonagall cleared her throat. “I hope you aren’t carrying your wand, Draco.”

“I’m not a moron,” he retorted hotly. Then his head snapped towards Granger when she sniffed derisively.

But he didn’t get a chance to ask her what her problem was, because his mother was hugging him and weeping. He gently pried her away and kissed her forehead.

“Stop crying,” he muttered, “I’ll be back before you know it.”

He spared his father a nod and turned to leave and –

  
“ _I’m sorry_!”

  
As haunted and distraught as his father’s voice sounded, Draco did not look back. He followed Granger into the rickety old lift.  
It creaked as it began its ascent, up and up and up into the world that he didn’t know anymore. He watched shadows slide over Granger’s face. Her eyes were trained upwards, and her frame was so taut that he wondered if she had stopped breathing entirely.  
So Draco looked up too, and his apprehension climbed out of his belly and settled in his throat.

  
“Drink this,” Granger commanded, jarring him out of his daze.

He looked down at her, taking in the stubborn angle of her chin, (even her voice was mellow and sweet – not at all intimidating,) and at the small bottle of golden liquid she was holding out to him.

He did a double take.

“Is that _Felix Felicis_?” he sputtered.

“Yes.”

“Where did you get that? I thought your lot had renounced all forms of Magic.”

She scowled. “I’ve had it for a while.”

“How long?”

“A _while_ ,” she ground out, “Look, if you don’t want it–”

He promptly grasped the bottle and took a gulp.

“Go easy, will you?” she carped, “We need to save some for the way back!”

“Yeah, yeah.”

  
And then they were out. The cold night air touched Draco’s face like a caress; he closed his eyes and drew in a lungful of it. Granger pushed the grill aside slowly so that it wouldn’t make a sound. The shaft opened up on the side of a mountain, sequestered between two large boulders.  
The sky above, the _real_ sky and not some artificial reflection, was dotted with stars and a half-moon. For a moment Draco was transfixed, and when he looked at Granger, he found her in a similar state. Her eyes were wide and suspiciously bright and watery.

Dear god, was she going to _cry?_ What kind of an absolute wimp was he stuck with?

“Let’s move on, shall we?” he said roughly.

She turned her shimmering, overwhelmed eyes onto him and nodded.

  
Together, they crept up the mountain, keeping close to large rocks so that they may remain hidden under their shadows. Halfway up, they froze – The whipping sound of a helicopter fan arrested all movement.

“ _Fuck!_ ” Draco hissed.

“Here!”

Granger pulled him behind a crag, where they crouched with hands pressed against their mouths. A spotlight meandered over the terrain, dipping into nooks and crannies. Draco’s terror was unimaginable. He turned to his side and pressed – squeezed – _compressed_ himself against the rock, wanting nothing more than to be absorbed by it. He would rather spend his life trapped in granite than be held at the mercy of Umbridge’s lackeys.  
The beam skimmed dangerously close to their spot. Granger emitted a muffled, panicked squeak.

But it passed them by, continuing uphill until it disappeared over the peak. The helicopter flew on ahead.

  
Draco and Granger remained unmoving until they couldn’t see or hear it anymore. And then a few moments more. He rested his head against the cool stone and tried to calm his thudding heart. She was panting like she’d been immersed in water for hours.

  
“Let’s go,” she wheezed eventually.

The rest of their climb was uneventful. When they finally arrived at the summit, Draco was a little winded. He held a hand against his ribs.

“There it is,” Granger said with soft awe, “Diagon.”

  
And there it was.  
In the dark, it was a network of twinkling yellow and white lights, like a dazzling circuit board. Even from that distance, he could make out the flashing neon lights of Knockturn, the nightclub where he’d spent so many evenings discovering the joys of being a teenaged delinquent... where he and Theo had downed the most expensive whiskey to impress Pansy and Daphne because they were just _so cool_ –  
Theo had tried to apparate when drunk – splinched himself – old Titus had been furious...

Draco could feel his throat closing up with emotion, so he turned to Granger and barked, “Well, what now?”

She was unfazed by his tone. “According to Moody, the forest is mostly unmonitored. We can climb down and get to the border through there. Our ride to the city has been fixed.”

“Yes – that cargo truck driver. Are you sure he can be trusted?”

“He’s an old friend of Dumbledore’s. Old and _loyal_ ,” she added when Draco looked at her sceptically. “He’s been ferrying our men in and out for years, so that they can collect provisions.”

Draco still wasn’t convinced, and that seemed to upset her.

“Stop making that face!” she growled, “Would you rather we try Riddle’s method of infiltration? Apparate brazenly to the border and gun down anyone who comes in our way? How long do you think we’ll survive?”

So, grumbling under his breath, Draco followed her down to the forest. It was thick and murky and uncomfortably foreboding, but just as Granger had said, it appeared to be free from soldiers and sentries. Draco thought that was quite foolish, an opinion that he voiced.

“Hubris,” Granger shrugged, “Umbridge doesn’t think we’d risk going through here, since there are all sorts of wild animals roaming around–”

“Excuse me?! _All sorts of wild_ –”

“And since you _Lords of Anarchy_ steer clear of it as well, she’s concentrated her troops on the mountains and the heath.”

“Can we go back to the _wild animals_ plea–”

“Lords of Anarchy!” she scoffed, “Who came up with that name?”

“Er, Riddle.”

“Of course. Bloody ridiculous.”

  
Fortunately, their sip of liquid luck carried them through the forest without any encounters with savage beasts. That didn’t stop Draco from jumping at every little noise, nor Granger from clicking her tongue at him every time he did.

At the edge of the forest was an unpaved road, and waiting for them there was the largest man Draco had ever seen. He was absolutely enormous, with a bristly black beard and dark eyes.

“Mr. Hagrid?” Granger ventured. Draco could tell she was startled by his appearance too.

“Aye,” he confirmed in a gruff voice, “Took yeh long ’nuff. I was afraid yeh’d bin caught.”

“It was close,” Granger replied grimly.

“Righ’ well, come along then.” He led them to his truck – a dilapidated hunk of metal on wheels – and popped open the back door. “In yeh get.”

“Ladies first,” Draco drawled.

Granger rolled her eyes and climbed in, providing Draco with a fantastic view of her arse in the process. He made to follow, but froze when she let out a small terrified whimper.

“Oh my – Er – Mr. Hagrid. There’s a very large dog–”

“Tha’s just Fang.” Hagrid waved one massive hand dismissively. “Ignore ’im. The great lump’s ‘armless.”

Draco doubted that a colossal boarhound called _Fang_ could ever be harmless. He gingerly scrambled inside and sat on a steel crate as far away from the beast as possible. Its bloodshot eyes were glued to him. Hagrid slammed the door shut and left them in pitch darkness. His heavy footfalls could be heard as he made his way to the cabin.  
A door opened and closed.  
The motor sputtered to life.  
The wheels roared.  
Much closer, Draco heard a soft rustle. He felt fabric brush against his arm. He smelt the pleasing aroma of something lightly floral.  
Granger had sat down next to him.

For some time, they travelled in silence. Hagrid was an appalling driver, and Draco found himself jostling into Granger far too often. The tires screeched over and over again.

“For fuck’s sake,” he spat.

“I concur,” Granger groused.

He’d only just got used to being rattled around when he felt something very _wet_ touch his hand. He yelped, but before he could move a muscle, a very heavy dog head fell onto his lap.

“What! _Aaaah!_ Get off me!”

Fang snuffled and drooled but did not budge.

“Get _off_ me, you piece of shit!”

More drool.

“Granger! Do something!”

But the stupid girl just giggled. “He likes you. Aww.”

  
Draco suffered the slobbering hound for goodness knows how long. Granger kept cooing at it and petting it, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t deposit its head on her lap instead of his. It all ended when a sharp rap against the container spurred them into action.  
Fang removed himself at last, Draco and Granger ducked behind the largest crate and waited.

“Jus’ the usual stuff, yeh know?” came Hagrid’s gravelly voice from outside, “Dry fruits an’ jams–”

“What’s that noise?” said another deep voice.

“Mus’ be Fang. Me dog. Lumberin’ brute, he is.”

The door opened with an ominous creak. Torchlight swept across the container. Draco held his breath.

“All clear!” the second man hollered.

“Thank yeh–” the door closed, “–an’ anytime yeh need somethin’ thumpin’ good fer yeh mornin’ toast, remember me, alrigh’? Rubeus Hagrid’s the name – fer all yeh jammy needs!”

Draco only let himself breathe when the truck started moving again.

  
 

* * *

 

  
The inn Hagrid had deposited them at was a rundown shithole in the back alley of Diagon City Shopping Centre. The Leaky Keg it was called, and it was run by a seedy looking bald man named Tom who had eyed them far too shrewdly while handing over their keys.

  
 (“Helen and Derek,” he had leered, “Twin beds, eh?”  
“ _Yes_ ,” he and Granger had replied strongly.)

  
There was a bar downstairs that Draco had wanted to visit, but Granger shut him down. He found that he was too tired to argue.

And so he just lay on his moth-eaten bed while she mucked around in the bathroom. He could hear water running, which obviously meant that she was having a shower. Which obviously meant that she was naked. Which was obviously not something he was thinking about.

When she came out, she was wearing loose cotton pajamas, and her hair was still in a shower cap. Draco grinned at how ridiculous she looked, causing her to huff and flush and yank the cap off.  
Her hair tumbled down and he sat up in alarm.

“What the hell happened?”

“What?!” she cried.

“To you? Your hair? What _happened_?!”

She glowered and turned away to climb into her bed. “Bugger off.”

“No seriously!” Draco persisted, “Did you stick your finger in a socket?”

“Ha ha.”

“Granger, I’m not joking! Go look in a mirror!”

“I don’t need–”

“It’s positively _wild_.”

“That’s just how my hair is, all right!” she exclaimed angrily.

He suppressed the laughter that was threatening to burst out of him. “I’m so sorry to hear that.”

She threw her pillow at him. He kept it.

 

* * *

 

  
_Day One:_

  
He was roused by a persistently prodding finger and the grating voice of a news anchor at some ungodly, dawn-ish hour.

“ _Good morning and welcome to Freedom TV. I’m Rita Skeeter bringing you the breakfast news–_ ” 

 _  
_ Poke, poke, poke –

  
“ _–Minister of State for Trade, Cornelius Fudge has severed trade relations with all Magic-majority nations–_ ”

 _  
_ Poke, poke, poke –

  
Draco opened his eyes to glare murderously at Granger and her finger. She wasn’t even looking at him: She was riveted by the telly, while she kept mindlessly _jabbing_ at him.

“– _to celebrate the third anniversary of the Day of Deliverance. Today we have with us Vernon Dursley, president of the Magic is Unnatural, Gross, Ghastly, Lousy, and Evil society, popularly known as M.U.G.G.L.E.S.–_ ”

  
Draco grabbed Granger’s wrist and pulled. With a little “ _Eeek!”_ she flew off her bed and crashed into the side of his, before slipping down to the floor.

“You utter _twat_!” she shrieked.

“You were poking me!”

“You wouldn’t wake up!”

Draco propped himself up on one arm and smirked. He wasn’t angry anymore, now that she was fuming.

“That is not how it’s done, Granger. For future reference, I appreciate being woken up in one of the following ways: One, with a hot cup of earl grey; one dollop of honey, no milk. Two, with a violin symphony. And three – my personal favourite – with a slow and lazy morning shag.” 

“You’re vile!” she spat, “I’m going down for breakfast. You’re just going to have to shag yourself!”

Draco laughed as she stormed out.

  
“ _–recovering from the most recent attack, where six people were killed. Police sources say that at least one of the terrorists was gravely injured–_ ”

It was like a punch to the gut, and Draco turned to the telly. The news reporter was blond and heavily painted.

“ _The High Inquisitor has once again reassured the people that they will very soon be rid of this monstrous organisation, at the launch of the army’s new line of ballistic weapons that have a range of over a thousand meters–_ ”

He leapt out of bed and switched it off. His head spun, his heart ached, and he quickly washed and dressed and went downstairs to meet Granger.

   


* * *

 

 

  
They talked in low voices at a corner table, over toast that tasted like sawdust and surprisingly good jam.  


“The bus leaves in half an hour,” Granger murmured, “We’ll have to switch at the Plaza. The problem is that there’s an official at every stop.”

“You’re sure about these fake ID cards, right?” Draco asked apprehensively.

“Yes.” Granger paused to bite her lip. “But if they think you’re even the slightest bit suspicious they can apprehend you. We need to get our story straight.”

“Go on then.”

“Well, we’re brother and sister and–”

“We look nothing alike. And even with my hair this appalling colour, it’s a thousand times better than yours.”

“Fine,” she snapped, “We’re completely unrelated, and students at Umbridge University.”

 “ _Blech_.”

“Quite. I’m studying literature, and you’re studying accounting–”

“Hold on!” Draco interrupted with a huff, “Why do you get the interesting subject while I get stuck with something so dry?”

“Students of literature are expected to be well-read!”

“Oh, and you’re well-read, are you?”

She raised her brows challengingly. “Yes. And your father was an, um, he was in the money business. Surely you know something about it?”

“My father and I,” Draco declared stonily, “Have nothing in common.”

“I see.”

“I want to be studying history.”

“Fine.”

“Or anthropology.”

“Okay.”

“Or chemistry.”

“ _Malfoy_!”

“What?”

“Is this a joke to you? Do you think we’re playing a game here?”

“A game?” he thundered, “ _A game_?!”

“ _Shhh!_ ”

“Theo is _my_ friend – I know how fucking serious this is!”

“You could have fooled me–”

“It’s bloody easy making a fool of _you_ , you impossible shrew!”

She threw her toast down and stormed away.

  
And alas, unfortunately, it was up to Draco to follow her again. Of all the people to be saddled with...

  
“I’m sorry,” he muttered as he entered their room. She was sitting at the foot of her bed and pouting. “I tend to act like an arse when I’m stressed.”

“Who are your parents, Derek Miller?” she asked in a clipped manner.

“Derek Sr. and Natalie. They live in Ilvermorny. He’s a banker and she’s a teacher.”

“Why did you come to Diagon?”

“To study in its great, prestigious university.”

“Where do you live?”

“In the dorms. Thirty-four, House B6.”

It took another dozen questions to convince Granger that he was prepared. With ten minutes for the bus to arrive, they stood uneasily in a queue by the side of the main road in front of the shopping complex. Cars whizzed by with their horns blearing. Men and women bustled about, busy and preoccupied, children in school uniforms crowded around an ice-cream vendor, and shopkeepers nipped out for a smoke. This was the city he once knew –  
But it wasn’t. Not really.  
For right in front was an enormous billboard with Umbridge’s hideous, frog-like face on it. For ever so frequently, a fighter jet or army jeep would rush by. For the roads were lined with gun toting soldiers.

Draco kept his eyes downcast. He felt like he was itching all over, and fought to keep himself from bouncing on the balls of his feet. Suddenly, he was glad that he had Granger. Keeping his gaze fixed on her atrocious mane made him feel a tad lighter.

But he was utterly jumpy all over again when they stood before the official. He was a bland looking man with grey hair and a weak chin. His name tag read _Dawlish_.

“Helen Cooper,” he droned, “Travelling alone?”

Granger shook her head and Draco wordlessly handed his ID to Dawlish.

“Derek Miller. Hm. Both in Uni. What are you heading to the port for?”

Draco spoke quickly before Granger could improvise with something flimsy. He beamed and put on an over-cheery demeanour – “There’s that tea shop by the lake, yeah? Madam Puddifoot’s? Pretty romantic place, you know. It took me three weeks to get this one to go out with me, so I’ve got to take her somewhere special, don’t I?”

He winked and put his arm around Granger’s shoulders. He dreaded that she’d flinch or stiffen... but to his surprise, she smiled prettily up at him.

“It only took three weeks because you were being a complete git about it. Not once did you properly _ask_.”

Dawlish looked between the two of them and chuckled asininely. “Well, what got you to agree in the end?”

“I took pity on him,” Granger answered lightly, “Oh, and he is _quite_ a looker!”

Dawlish dismissed them, and Draco kept his arm around her while they walked to the bus stop. He kept his arm around her till the bus came. And once they’d boarded and were sitting side by side, he put his arm around her again. There were cameras on the bus, after all. Dawlish could still be watching.

  
The ride to the Plaza was long – traffic was heavy. At one point, they were trapped behind a row of tanks, and the old man in the seat in front of theirs griped, “Blasted Tommies. Not a day goes by without them mucking our lives up!”

“Dad!” the young woman next to him exclaimed, “Shut up!”

“Things were better when the Magical Ones were here. Wish they’d come and string that fecking Inquisitor by the neck!”

“Dad!”

“What? I’m just saying–”

“You can’t!” the woman insisted, “You can’t be saying these things!”

“If only Dumbledore and Scrimgeour were still around–”

“Stop! Stop talking!”

  
The bus moved on.  
Suddenly Granger’s hand gripped his thigh, making Draco start. He dipped his head and pretended to nuzzle her cheek.

“What?”

“In the front,” she murmured against his throat, “Man in the yellow jumper. He’s staring.”

As casually as possible, Draco stole a glance –

“Fuck,” he gasped.

“What?”

“It’s Mr. Flinch-Fletchley... used to live down the street from us. Washed father’s car.”

“Shit,” Granger gushed, “Is there any chance he won’t recognise you with dark hair?”

“Unlikely. He’s seen me every day for years.”

“Shit,” she reiterated.

  
Even as Draco considered leaping off a moving bus, his eyes met Flinch-Fletchley’s. The man held his gaze for all of four seconds... and then looked away.

Both he and Granger remained on edge till they rolled in front of the Plaza. She took his hand as they scurried to disembark. Once they were off, she tried to pull him away, but he remained rooted to the spot. Flinch-Fletchley’s face appeared at one of the windows. There was no denying the recognition in the man’s eyes. But rather than raising an alarm, he smiled. And waved. Just like he used to every morning years ago while he was hosing down father’s car and Draco was leaving for school.

 

* * *

  
 

  _  
_ “Why didn’t he say anything?” Draco muttered for the tenth or so time.

Granger, with a long-suffering sigh, said, “Well you say he was fond of you?”

  
He looked up at the tree that loomed over the bench they were sitting on. It was full of fresh green leaves, dotted with golden sunshine. He made a face when summer’s splendour was tarnished by the horrifying sound of Granger sucking the last of her iced latte through a straw.

  
“He _was_ fond of me, sure.”

“Why would you assume that’s changed?”

Her face was open and curious. Draco took a sip of his own beverage.

“A lot has changed, hasn’t it?”

She hummed and slid lower down the bench, tipping her head back to feel the sun on her face. Her legs stretched out, straight and slender.

“The regime has changed. Laws have changed. Expectations have changed.” She looked up at him through her eyelashes and Draco was _captivated_. “Individuals haven’t changed. Good people are still good people.”

“Ha!” he jeered, “Right.”

“It’s true. And when hell like this befalls, the only thing everyday good people can do is adapt and survive.”

“Or they can fight,” Draco added scathingly.

“Like your lot you mean?” Her contemplative expression was gone; she sneered. “Fight and kill and kill and kill. Poor Mr. Flinch-Fletchley could be killed in your next attack. Maybe it’ll be that old man who was sitting in front of us. Maybe it’ll be one of those cricket playing kids over there.”

Draco couldn’t look at her anymore. “Shut the fuck up.” 

“Oh, does such talk bother you?” she simpered with faux-innocence, “The way you go about slaughtering with such alacrity–”

“I have never killed _anyone_!” Draco snarled at the grass around his boots. He heard her move and she appeared at the corner of his vision, oozing impassioned earnestness.

“But you stand by the man who revels in killing. The man who was happy to let Theo just die–”

Enraged, he shot to his feet and looked daggers at her. “Do you think your side is any better? Mucking about in that fucking cave, doing fuck all, pretending like you’re living... not doing any Magic, ever! You sit there being all righteous and sanctimonious, but what do you have to show for yourself?”

Her eyes were so, so bright. Her lips trembled.

“Nothing,” she whispered, “Absolutely nothing.”

 

* * *

 

  
The Plaza was by far the busiest part of Diagon. So crowded and chaotic that Draco and Granger were forced to hold hands as they meandered towards the checking point. The booth was right next to a large fountain: Six glittering jets of water surrounding a colossal gold statue of Dolores Umbridge.

Draco shuddered. Her dead, puffy eyes seemed to follow him.

  
The line was thrice as long as the one outside the shopping complex. All of a sudden, Granger gasped. Loudly.

“What happened?” he urged.

“No,” she moaned, “ _No!_ It’s Filch. _Fuck._ It’s Filch.”

Draco followed her eyes and saw a rangy, dishevelled man... looking right at them. His teeth were bared as he was steadily limping their way –

Granger’s fingers tightened around his.

“RUN!”

  
And they ran. Dodging bodies left and right, they tore across the central courtyard, around the fountain. Draco’s heart thudded as he sprinted and dragged Granger along.

“Stop them! Magical Ones! STOP THEM!” Filch bellowed from behind.

The crowd watch them go with wide eyes, yet not one person tried to stop them. In fact, they cleared their path.

But the thundering of additional footsteps intensified from behind: Filch had gathered reinforcements. Uniformed men poured in from the side and joined their trail. Three gun shots sounded and Granger shrieked. Draco’s panic was threatening to lock his muscles into a state of immobility. His brain was buzzing with blind hysteria, his rucksack was weighing him down, and he didn’t – couldn’t – wouldn’t – know what to do.

He felt his body jerk as Granger pulled him into a building. Air roared in his ears. He blinked and then they were clamouring up a staircase. For a moment, the thundering footfalls of imminent death seemed to have dimmed. But Granger kept climbing and Draco kept climbing and his lungs were surely going to combust –

  
“ _Up here! I think they went up here!_ ”

  
It was barely audible, but it was definitely there and – “Bugger!” Draco choked.

Granger drew him away from the stairwell and down a corridor. Was she planning on leaping out the window at the end of the passageway? Was she _mad_?

  
Then a door on the side opened and a voice called out – “In here! Quickly!” – And without a second thought, they jumped inside.

Draco scarcely registered a dash of bright pink and grey before he was shoved into a cramped bedroom.

“Inside the wardrobe – _now_!” the voice ordered.

He and Granger complied, the door closed behind them, and then they were doused in darkness.

  
“ _Gah!_ ” Granger gasped.

The wardrobe was tiny. There was barely enough air in there for the two of them, especially considering the way they were panting. It was crammed full of clothes and they were pressed tightly together. She swayed fluidly on her feet until she all but fell against him. He put a bracing hand on her hip. She rested her forehead against his shoulder.  
All Draco could see was black. All he could hear was their breathing. All he could taste was the remnants of his terror. All he could smell was their sweat and her shampoo.

  
For forty-nine beats of his heart they stood that way.

After which light exploded into his vision, and the voice of their saviour said, “All clear – you can come out now, wee Magical Ones. Wotcher. Call me Tonks.”

 

* * *

  
 

  
Tonks – _just Tonks, thanks_ – had short, lurid pink hair. She had a nose ring, a lip stud, a tattoo of a wolf on her forearm, and was probably three or four years older than Draco. She set two bottles of ice cold beer in front of him and Granger and crossed her arms over the black roses printed on her worn grey t-shirt.

“Now explain,” she demanded, “What the hell are you two doing roaming around the bloody Plaza like sitting ducks?”

It was up to Granger to respond because Draco was too busy chugging. She explained the whole situation with Theo, and why it was so necessary that they reach Grimmauldia at the soonest.

  
“Well, public transportation is out of the question now,” Tonks mused, “Security is being tightened as we speak. Your pictures are probably being flashed on screens all across Diagon.”

Draco slammed his bottle on the table and spat, “Fucking perfect.”

Granger’s exhale was pure frustration as she ran a hand through her utterly chaotic hair. “Please Tonks,” she entreated, “There has to be some other way.”

“Of course there is. It’s mad and dangerous... but, I suppose, nothing you two can’t handle. Still, I suggest you lie low for now–” she held up her palms when both Draco and Granger made to protest, “–Just tonight. Crash here. Let the hysteria die down a _little_.”

Draco sank back into the beanbag he was perched on and nodded.

“Alright.”

  
His exhaustion and plummeting adrenaline had sent the beer straight to his head. He felt woozy, drained, and just... well, just _sad._ From the window behind Tonks, he could see the restaurant where his mother used to take him and Theo sometimes, after school. One time, after their first lesson on summoning charms, they’d sat there and tried to practice the spell on the toupee of a man at the next table.  
Draco won the game, but lost his dignity and a whole lot of privileges as his mother made him apologise and grounded him. 

  
“Thank you,” Granger blurted suddenly. She was picking at the label on her bottle. “Thank you _so much_ , Tonks. If you hadn’t helped us we–”

“Pssh,” Tonks cut her off, “None of that. Umbridge and her cronies are monsters. You can thank me by getting back to your hideout or whatever safely. And if you can find a way to get rid of her... even better. Damned psychotic bitch. Believe me; nearly all of Diagon will be happy to see the end of her.”

“How did she even get to where she is?” Draco cried exasperatedly, “How did people knowingly vote for her?”

“People get swept away,” Granger shrugged, “It’s the thrill... the mania. The promise of a brave new world. It doesn’t take long before bitter disenchantment takes over.”

There wasn’t a whole lot of conversation after that. Tonks sensed her unexpected guests’ mawkish moods and left them alone. She put on some mindless film that nobody paid attention to. They even ate dinner in front of the telly, followed by another round of beer.

And another.

And another.

  
“Are you part of that terrorist group?” Tonks asked over the protagonist’s big romantic declaration.

“No,” Granger responded at once, even as Draco squirmed.

“Wouldn’t matter to me if you were. Frankly, they’re the only ones _doing_ something about this sodding mess.”

Draco did not feel an ounce of vindication at her words. He knew Granger was watching him but he refused to meet her eye.

“You know,” Tonks went on, “I lost two friends during the purge. Sirius. Complete nutcase, total maverick. Wildest boy I’ve ever known. And the other – bah, he wasn’t a _friend_. I was mad for him. Fancied the hell out of him. _Remus._ ”

Granger sucked in a startled breath. “Tonks! He’s fine! He’s alive!”

“ _What_?!”

“Remus Lupin, right?”

“Yes! Oh _god_.”

Tonks started crying. Not long after, she, (still sniffling,) laid two mattresses on the floor. Then she switched off the lights, bid them goodnight, and shuffled into her bedroom.

 

Diffused blue and yellow light seeped in through the window and kissed the edges of Granger’s form.  She had her back to him and her hair was trailing off the side of her mattress and onto the floor. Draco wanted to take those curls in his hand. He wanted to coil them around his fingers. He wanted to bury his face in them.

“Granger?” he whispered.

She turned, and that motion shifted those tempting locks out of his reach.

“Yes?”

He could tell she had been crying too.

“Are you okay?”

“Fine,” she answered with a soft smile.

“We’ll pull this off, won’t we?”

“We have to.”

“Yeah.”

“I used to practice,” she murmured, “Late at night when everybody was asleep. Simple, basic spells. Just to feel... Magic. _Accio. Lumos._ ” She sighed. “ _Wingardium Leviosa._ ”

Her wistfulness was breathtaking.

“You rebel,” Draco purred. He’d meant for it to sound mocking, but it came out gravelly and gasping. 

Her lips parted.

“Goodnight, Granger.”

“Goodnight, Malfoy.”

 

* * *

 


	6. Sixth

 

**_Consensus._ **

  
  
_Day Two:_

 

“There you go,” Tonks beamed, “You look nothing like yourselves.”

Draco knew he was scowling petulantly, but he bloody well didn’t care. He was wearing a stupid grey newsboy cap and thick framed spectacles. His shirt was blood red and much too roomy.   
It helped that Granger was just as annoyed with her pin-straight hair, and short, fluttery, floral skirt.

“It’s not _practical!_ ” she whinged, “What if we get caught and have to run–”

“Then don’t get caught,” said Tonks simply.

Draco allowed himself another peek at Granger’s legs.

  
 

* * *

 

 

  
 Tonks was a tour guide, a lucky stroke that Draco and Granger were using to their advantage. They trundled along with a group of twenty-five tourists, taking in the sites with suitably wide eyes. Tonks had given Granger a camera for added authenticity.

“And this fantastic building,” Tonks announced, “Is _St Mungo’s_ Hospital. Notice the elaborate sixteenth century facade–”

  
With the horde thus distracted, Draco and Granger slipped away. They ducked into an alley that was lined with chemist’s shops, and not a single one that sold Magical remedies or potions. They crept along watchfully, but were largely ignored by people who were more concerned with their own lives and the various prescriptions they were clutching.  
As instructed by Tonks, they turned into the painfully narrow lane between the third and fourth shops. Draco was looking up at the criss-cross of wires above them, when Granger abruptly shoved him to the wall, and pressed herself tightly against him.

“Don’t. Move.”

He saw him, the sentry, from the corner of his eye. Portly and burgundy-faced, he was staggering down the lane like he was drunk... which he probably was. Draco wrapped his arms tightly around Granger and tucked his face into her neck.  
He tried to breathe normally, taking comfort in her scent. Her chest was aligned with his... he couldn’t tell which of their hearts was beating faster.  
The sentry was singing some old song about a rainy day. His garbled crooning became louder and more erratic as he approached....

...he stumbled past them without a glance.

When he had turned the corner, Draco breathed out heavily, and tightened his grip for just one second, savouring the relief; savouring her. 

  
They parted and moved towards the building at the corner of the path. It was a crumbling grey structure with mould plastered on the walls. They climbed to the third floor and knocked on the third door to the left. After a moment of fumbling, it opened a crack, and a sliver of a surly, bespectacled face peered at them.

“Who is it?” said the face in a churlish, female voice.

“Um, hello,” Granger broached, “You’re Myrtle Warren? Tonks sent us here...”

“Oh, yes,” Myrtle replied. She opened the door just enough for them to slip in, “Come in I suppose.”

Myrtle’s flat was messy and musty. Draco surveyed the tattered furniture and peeling wallpaper and tried not to grimace.

“I know what you’re thinking,” she griped, “What a dump.”

“No, no!” Granger said hastily, “We weren’t–”

“And you’re right. It’s a bloody dump. But it’s all poor Myrtle can afford so that’s that.”

  
She was plump and dour but thankfully, she departed for work soon enough, leaving Draco and Granger alone. He sank down on her ratty sofa and stretched. Then he pulled off the stupid cap and glasses.

  
“Have you ever met _anyone_ more cheerful?”

Granger replied promptly – “Snape.”

He laughed, watching her as she examined Myrtle’s narrow bookshelf. “So you know old Sevy then?”

“I’ve met him a few times. He used to show up while I was doing an internship with Horace Slughorn.”

“Well, well.” Draco whistled lowly. “A potions intern. A research fellow for a paper on Transfiguration. Well-read, apparently... you’re a bit of a genius, aren’t you?”

She merely shrugged. “Look, Malfoy.” She turned to him, very serious and business-like. “When we get to Grimmauldia... I’ve fixed a meeting with Kingsley Shacklebolt.”

“ _Who_?”

“Shacklebolt. The Foreign Secretary. I want to talk to him about our options.”

“Options?” he baulked, “What options?”

“I want to know if we have his support. If – _when_ – we make our move against Umbridge.”

Draco stared at her. “You want to start a war?”

“The war has already begun,” she said with a humourless laugh, “But no. I want to harness a power far more potent than any weapon or spell: The power of the people.”

“What the _hell_ are you on about?” He stood up, entirely flummoxed.

She took a step towards him. “We take to the streets. You’ve seen how it is here... we have their support. The majority want her gone, and–”

“She’ll just shoot us all down!”

“No.” She moved closer. “Not if there are so many of us. Not if we have the international community behind us.”

“The international community had three years to come to our aid.”

“I know,” she murmured, taking another step, “They should have. But now we’re going to demand that they help. We’re going to demand our rights, and our homes. We’ll shout and scream and shut down the whole system until we get them.”

“ _We?_ ” Draco rasped.

“You,” she whispered. –Another step– “Me.” –And another– “Our friends. Our families. Acquaintances.” – Another step– “Magical Ones and those without. _We._ ”

“You’ll never convince the Lords of Anarchy to stop attacking.”

“Oh?” She was very close now. “Really? Anarchy is an adolescent’s game, though. They really need to grow up.”

With a strangled laugh, Draco muttered, “They won’t turn their backs on Riddle.”

One. More. Step.

“They will. Because you’ll talk to them. You’ll promise them action without violence. You’ll take their struggle out into the open. You’ll tell them that Diagon and its people are with them.”

“You don’t get it, Granger – Riddle has a hold on them–”

She came right up to him; the tips of their boots knocked together.

“You will win them over with honesty and ardour. You’re charismatic and compelling–”

“Nothing compared to Rid–”

“So much more than Riddle. And besides–” her whispers tickled his chin, “–You are infinitely more attractive than he is.”

  
Draco was doomed. _Doomed_ by the buttery warmth of her eyes. He didn’t stand a chance, and he probably never had. Not since she happened.

  
Her eyes closed when he took her face in his hands and gently swiped his thumbs across her cheeks. She sighed as he kissed her, as he _tried_ to be gentle, _tried_ to temper the scorching fire that erupted at every single nerve end.  
But she undid him again. Her fingers tangled in his hair and she arched into him, pressing her soft, delicate, lithe body against his. Draco’s hands slid down her neck, caressed the sides of her breasts, reached around her waist...  
He wrapped his arms tightly around her.

How had he ever thought her weak? She was the only thing holding him up.

Their kiss intensified. Draco bent her over his arms as he pushed deeper and deeper into her – and she clung to him, nails scraping his scalp so tantalisingly. He broke away to breathe, and she took the opportunity to push him onto the sofa. Before he could figure out what had happened, she straddled his lap and began unbuttoning his shirt. His head fell back as she pressed kisses along his jaw line.

  
“When,” he groaned, “ _When_ did you fix the meeting?”

“The Leaky Keg. While you were sleeping.”

She softly bit his earlobe. His hands slid up her thighs and he was more grateful than ever for her skirt.

“You are unbelievable.”

“Mmm,” she agreed, and kissed him again.

  
His shirt was open. She was running her hands all over his chest. He slipped his under her knickers and gripped her bum.  
Her skin was so, _so_ soft. 

Soon, his shirt was off entirely.  
Soon, hers was, too.  
Soon, he made her stand and knelt in front of her to peel her knickers off with his teeth.  
(He said, “No. Keep the skirt on.)  
Soon, she unbuckled his belt and pulled down his trousers and pants with an urgency that drove _him_ mad.

  
Yes, he was utterly doomed. But perhaps not as much as Myrtle’s unfortunate sofa.

   
  


* * *

   


When Myrtle returned, Draco and Granger were sitting at her tiny dining table and drinking tea in a very mundane and upright manner.  
All the windows were open. They were skimming through old newspapers.

  
“Hi,” Granger said brightly.

Draco grinned.

“Yeah, hello,” Myrtle groused, “I don’t have food so you shant have any dinner.”

“That’s fine,” Draco quipped, “I have other ways to satisfy my appetite.”

Granger rolled her eyes. Myrtle shot him a filthy look.

  
The hour that followed was fucking tedious. Myrtle decided to tell them all about the woes of her job as a sanitation manager. She moaned endlessly, but it helped that Granger had taken hold of his hand and was drawing random shapes on his palm.

  
Finally night fell, and it was time to get moving again.

There was a knock at the door and in came a young man; scrawny, spotty, with large protruding ears. He was wearing a bulky, bright purple overcoat and when he spotted Granger his eyes lit up.

“Well 'allo there, luvly. The name's Stan Shunpike. ’Choo ready for the ride o’ your life?

He had a thin, nasally, despicable voice, and Draco put his arm around Granger and glared. Stan got the message – he immediately lost his swagger and beckoned them to head downstairs. While they were creeping down the murky lane, he gave conversation another go.

“Magical ones, isit? Choo doin' 'ere, then? I asked Tonks if you wos 'ere to bump the bleedin' ole 'ag off, but she says nah. Is a pity, that. I wos just tellin' Ern, there aint nuffink else to be done - Ern's the driver, you'll meet 'im in a bit–”

“How do you plan to avoid the guards around the port?” Granger mercifully interrupted.

“Don't choo worry about that, doll. Er, miss. Ma’am. We know 'ow it's done, innit? Been sneakin' chaps around for years, 'aven't we? Oi, right, 'aven't we Ern?”

Ern was a shrivelled old man with thick, round glasses. He was leaning against a black taxi with black tinted windows.

“Arr,” he agreed, nodding at Stan, and then at Draco and Granger. He opened the door for them, and they climbed in, settling on surprisingly comfortable, velvet covered seats. Stan hopped into the front.

  
Ern, it turned out, was madder than Hagrid behind the wheel. He was recklessly fast, zipping into rough, unlit and narrow lanes like a tunnelling worm making its own path. Granger let out a little _eep_ and buried her face in Draco’s neck.

“Don' be worryin' bout copping back to the border, awright? We'll take care o' it. Got an inside man in the security force, don't we, eh, mate? Right, Ern?”

“Arr.”

“Pettigrew - that's 'is name - total rat but give 'im brass and 'e'll do wot choo say.”

“Such as?” Draco squawked as they took a tight turn at a roundabout.

“’E’ll muck up the cameras for a bit. Make sure it's 'im at the checkpoint. It's smooth sailin'. Most o' the bloody officials, they're tired too. Don't 'ave a look properly, do they?”

Ern brought the car to a halt in a dim alley: “Off you get,” he said.

  
Draco’s legs shook as he stepped out. The night was dark and cool. He breathed in and looked around – the corner they were at was free of lights and barriers, and the lake shimmered up ahead. Stan pressed a finger against his lips and led them along the embankment to a thick grove of magnolia trees. And there, resting against the bank was a small boat with a small man sitting in it.

“Awright Griphook?” Stan whispered.

Griphook furrowed his bushy brows, stroked his pointy black beard, and grunted.

“Drop these ’ere fine folk at Grimmauldia 'arbour, will you? Special guest o' ours they are, right, so mind you treat ’em well.”

“Hundred galleons,” Griphook rasped.

Draco promptly handed him the money. Granger protested, (“No – Malfoy – Let me–”) and he kissed the top of her head and gently pushed her towards the boat.

“ _Thank you_ , Stan,” Granger gushed fervently once they had settled.

“Ah, wos nuffink! I'll spot you again right 'ere tomorrow.”

  
Griphook started the motor and it purred to life. Soon they were rippling across the waters, watching Stan’s silhouette wave at them. Their ferryman was determinedly taciturn, and Draco was glad for it. He felt the wind whip his face and watched it lift Granger’s hair, which was beginning to curl once again. He dipped his fingers into the water.  
She settled against his chest.

  
Wind, water, sky, stars, and her.

  
Many moments went by. Then suddenly Griphook announced, “We have officially left Diagon and are in Grimmauldian territory.”

“ _Oh_ ,” Granger breathed.

She lifted her face to beam up at him, her eyes twinkling with wonder. He felt her delight down to his soul, and he laughed.

They had done it. Theo would be saved.

But beyond that – the things he’d seen, the people he’d met, and the glorious, maddening, dynamic woman at his side had brought him to the cusp of something enormous. His world had been remade.

 

* * *

 


	7. Seventh

 

**_Forge._ **

****

_Day Three:_

  
Kingsley Shacklebolt’s office was large and elegant, and Draco had felt thoroughly out of place all the way up, in his t-shirt and jeans, surrounded by people bustling about in smart formalwear.   
But that hardly mattered, really. Not when he had Dittany in his bag, and Granger by his side, and hope – marvellous, sunlit hope – in his heart.

Shacklebolt strode in from a back door.

He was the kind of man who demanded attention. Dressed in a pin-striped suit, he was dark, bald, tall and broad-shouldered, and he wore a single gold earring in one ear.

  
“Ms. Granger,” he boomed, gesturing for them to sit while settling behind his desk, “I have been looking forward to meeting you.”

“Thank you, Minister,” she replied, “This is Draco Malfoy. Look, sir, I’m going to get straight to the point: Diagon needs your help.”

He sighed, squaring his shoulders and looking her right in the eye. “I am aware of what’s been going on. Of course. Dolores Umbridge is a ruthless, reprehensible tyrant, and I can assure you that leaders of all nations have been considering taking strict action against her.”

“ _Considering_?” Draco sputtered, “You’ve been _considering_? She launched a campaign to eradicate the entire Magical population and you’ve been _considering_? It’s been three years and you’re still _considering_ taking action?”

“You have to understand,” Shacklebolt said placatingly, “We thought she _had_ managed to wipe you all out. The only ones that remained were the so-called Lords of Anarchy, and we absolutely could _not_ openly support a terrorist organisation.”

“But we aren’t terrorists!” Granger cried, “And we aren’t all dead! We’ve been sitting underground, struggling to survive, with no relief in sight–”

“I see that now–”

“Three years, sir! _Three years_!”

Kingsley closed his eyes with seemingly authentic regret. “I am so terribly sorry for what you’ve gone through. It is... heinous, horrific to say the least. I can assure you, had we known – had we even the slightest inkling–”

“And now that you _do_ know?” Draco sneered.

“Of course we cannot directly intervene, but you have our unconditional support. Tell me what you need from us.”

Granger clasped her hands together and leaned forward. “We’re going to march to the Plaza. We’re going to reclaim our home. I already know that the majority of Diagon will be with us–”

“As will the people of Grimmauldia,” Kingsley jumped in with confidence, “We will march with you, stand by the border, swarm the lake. Our journalists will be on site to bring news of your march to the world.”

“There’s still a chance that she’ll order the forces to attack us,” said Draco gravely.

Kingsley pulled open a drawer and placed a simple, pocket-sized remote on his desk. “This,” he explained, “Is a neutraliser. It’ll shut down the dampers. My team has been developing it for the past eight months. If you can promise you will _only_ use defensive spells–”

“We promise!” Draco and Granger quickly said.

“Then it is yours.”

 

* * *

 

  
 It was two in the afternoon when they left the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, which meant that they had ten hours before they had to meet Griphook at the harbour.

Granger tugged at Draco’s arm, abuzz with a strange excitement.

“Let’s pretend we’re on holiday.”

  
So they spent their time wandering among the old, historical buildings of Grimmauldia. She informed him that the architecture dated back to the twelfth century, and he listened rapt as she explained the significance of nearly every structure. She seemed to know everything.   
They sat in a pretty little park and watched a man conjure balloon animals for children. They ate a hearty meal at an outdoor restaurant beside a stream. They visited a book shop and a music shop and a general store from where Granger picked up a dozen or so batteries.   
They went to a wandmaker’s just to play around with spells. Eventually, they were thrown out by the owner, after Draco inadvertently, in his enthusiasm, reduced a storage cabinet to dust.

They went back to the stream to watch the sun set, while eating ice cream and debating the merit of using weather modification charms to counter the effects of global warming. He called her an officious cow and she didn’t speak to him for twenty minutes. So he bought her a bouquet of colour changing flowers from a crumpled old woman who turned to Granger and said, “Oh forgive the lad. Look at him, so handsome.”

They stopped by the cinema to sit through half of the most inane high-action film Draco had ever seen. He kept up a steady stream of snarky commentary to make her laugh, and they walked out at the interval, with her clutching his arm as she continued to cackle. After dinner, they sat on the wide marble steps of the National Museum of Grimmauldia and observed the bustling traffic as if they were just any old pair of lovers, intertwined, watching life go by. Steady, regular, everyday life. 

  
When the clock tower chimed at midnight, they were at the harbour. She looked out over the water, seeking their boat, but he looked behind, at the little lakeside huts that were the prologue to the city. The day had been like a mad dream, and now it was time to wake up. He could already feel memories of the past few hours desaturating and fading.

Griphook wrangled another hunner from him.

“Well, excuse me–” Granger began, compelling Draco to pinch her side and tell her to _shut up_.

  
He didn’t need Griphook to tell him when they were back in Diagon. He felt the absence of Magic in the air. An ineffable emotion erupted in his chest – agitation like wildfire, dread, thick like swamp water, anticipation like the moment before a perfect kiss. It was too much _everything_ and he tugged at his collar, unable to breathe.

“ _Granger_ ,” he gasped.

“Malfoy,” she murmured, and pressed her lips to his.

It was brief and unstable, but it centred him.

  
Stan was waiting by the magnolia grove as he had promised. With a cavalier greeting he asked if everything had gone well. Then he snuck them over to the same old alley, where Ern and his taxi were parked.

  
Another crazy journey – two hours of being knocked left and right as Ern zoomed across the city. They were stopped at a checkpoint at the Plaza, but thankfully there were no hobbling cretins around this time. They did however, in the dim light, catch a glimpse of the infamous Pettigrew as he shone torchlight into the car.

“’Ello, Peter,” Stan sang, “Doin’ awright?”

“Fine,” Pettigrew squeaked. He stepped back and motioned for them to carry on.

  
They finally stopped in yet another murky lane, a few kilometres away from the border. Draco left it up to Granger to properly thank their chaperons, and to return Hagrid’s crinkle-eyed smile when he rolled over in his truck moments later. 

“Glad teh see yeh made it out fine,” he lauded in a low voice.

  
Draco was running on auto-pilot, like he was moving in slow motion through a vacuum. Sitting amid rattling cargo, he let Granger rest her head on his shoulder and Fang drool all over his lap. They were stopped and he dutifully hid when a guard opened the container for a check-up.

  
Then they were back at the edge of the forest.

“Thanks so much, Mr. Hagrid,” said Granger while he nodded along.

“Take care o’ yehselves,” he replied.

He drove away, kicking up a cloud of dust.

  
Granger pulled out her bottle of _Felix Felicis_ , and between the two of them, they emptied it.

 

* * *

 

  
Draco’s chaotic emotions finally settled the moment they were back at the summit. They paused to take one last look at Diagon and its network of lights, and quite suddenly, he was whole again. His chest swelled with air and hope and a sensation that felt like: _YES._

  
Just simply _yes._

  
“This is it, Malfoy,” said Granger tremulously, “All set to upturn the world?”  

With a ridiculous, flippant shrug he replied, “Yeah. Why not? Viva la Magia.”

“My,” she grinned, “Don’t you sound optimistic.”

 

And on the top of that mountain, at the foot of a revolution, Draco kissed her.

  
 

* * *

 


End file.
